


The Education of the Senses

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Blindfolds, F/M, Happy Ending, Mutual Masturbation, Nipple Play, Porn with Feelings, Sex Toys, Shaving Kink, Slow Burn, shameless shameless porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-10 03:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10428021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: Bedelia has never had an orgasm; Hannibal wants to help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NotPersephone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotPersephone/gifts).



“Never?” he asks, eyebrows raising in incredulity.

“Never with another person.” Bedelia lifts her wine glass and finds it sadly empty. How ever had they gotten on this topic of conversation—her particular problem.

“But you can—when you are alone?” he asks carefully.

“Hannibal, I’m your therapist, you’re not mine. And neither of us are that kind of therapist,” she says, and strides to the kitchen to refill her glass of chianti. She takes a sip; it courses through her veins like blood. “I am…fine…the way I am.”

He, of course, follows slowly on her heels, stalking her like prey. He stands behind her; so close she can feel the heat of him, but he does not touch her. “But you are not happy this way. Is this why you won’t allow me to make love to you?”

It’s the tenderness in his voice that nearly undoes her. She feels herself almost yielding, then her reserve snaps back like a rubber band, pulling her armor tighter and tighter around her. “I am afraid I will disappoint you,” she says in a quiet voice. “It has happened before.”

He makes some kind of small tutting sound, something between annoyance and disbelief. His arms wrap around her small waist and he gathers her close to his chest—Bedelia does not fight it, merely examines the sensation distantly. Warm, he makes her feel warm, she decides. It’s not unpleasant.

“You forget,” he whispers in her ear, carefully lifting a strand of her hair, “that I am no ordinary man.”

Bedelia rolls her eyes at his obvious, utterly commonplace male braggadocio. “You wish to boldly go where no man has gone before. My orgasm is not your personal Mt. Everest, Hannibal.”

He turns her around in his arms; without her heels, her head barely grazes his chin, coming face to face with his bare chest. “I want to help you. And I think you believe I can help you—otherwise you would be home right now, tucked into your lonely bed in Baltimore.”

There is no arguing with that logic. Bedelia polishes off her second glass of wine and swallows her pride. She knows her lines well; “Will you help me?”

He smiles back at her very, very slowly—it telegraphs a signal to some very sensitive places. “It would be my pleasure.”

*

When Bedelia is ready for bed later that evening, she finds Hannibal unexpectedly in it. He has made himself at home reading her copy of _Death in Venice_ , clearly waiting for her arrival.

She slips her robe off her shoulders nervously; the flesh on her arms raises to goose pimples in the air, but not from cold. When she remains quiet, Hannibal says, “If I am going to help you, I thought it best we begin by sleeping in the same bed.”

She nods quietly, and slides beneath the covers. Her heart pounds in her chest, her pulse racing hummingbird fast. “I did not expect your _help_ so soon.” She turns away from him, body hugging the edge of the mattress. “Please turn off the light when you are finished.”

A large warm hand touches her back through the satin of her nightdress. He rubs soothing circles there; it reminds her of the way one might soothe a nervous horse. “You are shaking. Oh Bedelia, I know you are not ready. Did you think I would force you?”

“You have tried to force my hand in so many other ways—to the point where I do not know where coercion ends and persuasion begins. Why not this?”

He does not answer, merely turns her in his arms so she must face him. His fingertips trace the outline of her hair, her shoulders, and arms before linking around her back. “We shall start slowly. A simple exercise in trust and touch. Touch builds trust—they are inextricably linked.”

“A chemical reaction between the skin and the brain that triggers the release of oxytocin,” she recites. “It’s science, Hannibal, not romance.”

He continues to hold her, hands still but firm. “You have a problem with touch. You think I have not noticed?”

“I am letting you touch me right now. I have let you touch me before.”

He rests a fingertip beneath her chin, tilting it up to she is forced to look at him in his wet dark seal’s eyes. “Yes. But in all the years I have known you, you have never once touched me. So tonight I am asking you, inviting you, to touch me.” He releases her, and lies back on the mattress, chest and arms spread open and vulnerable before her. “In whatever way you would like.”

Some part of her brain warns this is surely a trap, that if she reaches beyond the veil to touch him, she will fall through and lose herself. No trail of breadcrumbs to lead her out of the enchanted wood where Hannibal dwells, no silken thread to follow out of the dark of the labyrinth and away from its monster. But the glowing lamplight caresses the firm muscles of his shoulders and chest in such soft chiaroscuro and the salt and pepper of his chest hair is a pelt that her fingers itch to run through. Desire pools warm and golden somewhere south of her belly. Her particular problem…it does not mean that she does not ache, that she does not hunger as others do. It only means that her hunger has gone unsatisfied.

She reaches out her small hand and lets it cover Hannibal’s chest, right above his beating heart. His skin is softer than she would have anticipated. Her hand looks like a child’s hand. She closes her eyes as heat…and something else…tenderness perhaps…shoots up her arm, floods her bloodstream like an opiate. She lays down, resting her head in the place where her hand had been. His arm circles around her as the other flicks off the light. His lips caress her hairline; it puts her in mind of two large cats of prey grooming one another. He feels hot around her—almost too hot—but her body craves it, and she basks in it like the sun.

How did she let herself become so cold that only hellfire could warm her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to bedeliainwonderland/notpersephone not only for bidding on my FTH auction, but for giving me such liberal free reign to write whatever my heart desired. :D
> 
> The last line was inspired by some of the "Antipasto" commentary between Gillian Anderson and Bryan Fuller. Gillian headcanons that Hannibal is the first person Bedelia has experienced intimacy with in quite some time, while Bryan said that Hannibal's fire is both dangerous and inviting to her. Those words really stuck with me.


	2. Chapter 2

He emerges from his bedroom after work the next day, tie discarded, sport coat slung casually over one arm. “I thought we’d have dinner out for a change,” he says.

Bedelia studies him, studies herself, and says, “And what of my oysters, acorns, and marsala? Or have you tired of that particular game?”

“I have played that game many times before.”

“With Will Graham,” she adds with a sniff.

“And others,” he says smoothly, offering her his arm. “But this is a game I can play only with you. Come.”

They stroll arm and arm along the cobblestones of Florence, the dusk reflecting blood orange and lavender blue on the pale marble of the buildings. It is a perfect late spring evening, the air still humid from the day, the streets free of tourists. He guides her to an out of the way piazza where a small café waits in the center of the square, garlanded with fairy lights that sparkle like tiny stars. It occurs to her that this is the first time they have dined out together in Florence; Hannibal prefers his own dishes and she does not like to dine in public alone.

They order a decadent five courses. She notices he is polite enough not to order for her, even if she must stumble over the words in her own unmusical American accent. Halfway through the _primo_ , a concertina begins to play a swinging, hot box jazz. Hannibal covers her hand with his, his thumb brushes against her wedding ring tenderly, in a way that sends a jolt straight to her heart.

“This feels like a date,” she tells him.

He says nothing, but his eyes look back at her, warm and fond. “I have often imagined what it would be like to take you on a date,” he tells her at last.

The sentiment hangs in the air, as fragrant and tender as a lilac first blooming. And just as fragile.

She blushes in spite of herself.

“But I prefer to think of tonight as an exercise in sensuality.” He swirls fresh linguine in a creamy sauce and lifts the fork to her lips. She opens her mouth, feeling the rich sauce melt on her tongue, forcing herself to bite back a moan.

He smiles and takes a large helping for himself. “Carbonara is a simple dish, but well made.” High praise coming from him; at least she need not worry about the chef ending up in their larder for not cooking the pasta to the right degree of _al dente_.

“I want you to feel the warm breeze on your shoulders and hear the counterpoint of the musicians, to taste the fresh flavors of the food, and smell the honeysuckle blooming. An education of the senses,” he tells her in a mesmerizing whisper.

Bedelia opens her mouth to tell him that no such education is necessary, but she knows the words to be a lie, not even a half truth. Instead she takes another bite of creamy pasta, smiling to herself in quiet pleasure.

*

Later that evening, Bedelia enters her bath to find Hannibal sitting beside the tub, patient and expectant.

“I took the liberty of drawing you a bath,” he says. It’s a rather opulent one; violets and rose petals float on the surface of scented water and the air is humid with perfume.

When she fumbles for the zipper on the back of her dress, his hands rush up to meet hers as they have many times before. Her dress floats to the floor, a storm cloud of grey chiffon; her silk brassiere and underwear follow. It is nothing either of them haven’t seen before, yet she feels the heat of his gaze on her, burning. Keeping her back to him, she enters the steaming water of her bath, conscious of the way her breasts float like lilies on the top of the water.

She is startled when he dips a sponge into her bathwater and begins soaping up her shoulders and arms. She clutches the edges of her copper tub, her own small sanctuary in this place, and feels every muscle tense. “I can bathe myself, Hannibal.”

“I know,” he says, running the sponge along her other shoulder. “But I am helping you, remember?”

Bedelia closes her eyes and sinks against the side of the tub with a sigh. “More education for my senses.”

“Yes, touch this time. The one you seem to struggle with the most.”

Eyes closed, Bedelia quiets herself, reveling in the warmth of the water against her skin, and the smell of the perfumed oils Hannibal has selected for her—attar of roses, she thinks, with something like myrrh underneath. She has always enjoyed the feeling of being suspended in the water; she has long supposed it is some deep subconscious connection to the waters of the womb. Passively, she allows Hannibal to wash her limbs, a spasm of pleasure shooting through her as the roughness of his sponge brushes her sex all too briefly.

He sets aside his sponge and she is next treated to the sensation of water being poured over her hair. Her heart flutters in protest. “Is it really necessary for you to wash my hair, Hannibal?”

“You would let a stranger wash your hair at a salon. How is this any different?”

It _is_ different, she knows, in a way that itches, beautiful and chafing like a lace dress. “That person is a professional. This is too—”

“Intimate?” he adds, chuckling to himself as he lathers up her hair. “Bedelia, that is entirely the point.”

She closes her eyes again, resigned to enduring the rest of Hannibal’s master class in sensuality. She tries to imagine she is back at her usual salon in Baltimore, getting a shampoo from one of the junior stylists. But she is all too aware of the pads of his fingers massaging into her scalp and teasing the sensitive nape of her neck. She can feel him softly caress her locks and suddenly her skin is humming with a pleasure no hairstylist ever gave her.

She emerges from the tub like Aphrodite from the sea foam and he has a large Turkish towel to wrap about her. His arms wrap around her in turn, and it is so much like an embrace, Bedelia feels herself melting into it, the first time in a long time she has melted for anyone. But Hannibal, as he likes to remind her, is no ordinary man.

They make their way into her adjoining room, where a small fire has been lit in the grate.

“To dry your hair,” he explains, ushering her toward the fireplace. There are cushions and blankets artfully strewn before the fire that were not there this morning, along with two glasses of Armagnac.

She sheds her towel and dons her silk robe. “A hairdryer would be more efficient.”

“But far less poetic.” He sinks to the cushions and pats the open space before him, clearly telegraphing his intentions.

She goes to him willingly, letting his arms and legs circle close about her. She can feel, but not see, his smile as she tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder, letting its length dry in the heat of the fire. Bedelia is warmed again—by the whisky, by the fire, by Hannibal. All too soon, she finds herself nodding off against his shoulder, unable to resist the urge to snuggle against him as he carries her to what is no longer her bed, but theirs.


	3. Chapter 3

The next night is dinner in, monkfish in a simple wine and butter sauce that they may both enjoy. She enjoys a reprieve from her oysters and all they entail, and Hannibal enjoys the sight of her eating something he has prepared with unguarded relish. There is a chestnut cake for dessert, and port, and Hannibal’s disastrous attempt to recreate the jazz tune of the night before. She laughs, they both laugh, and Hannibal vows to stick to music written before the first world war from now on.

A bath again that leaves every inch of her skin tingling with arousal…and anticipation. The evening has been too easy, too calm; she knows he will up the ante in some way with her tonight, she just doesn’t know how.

One glance at the center of their bed tells her everything, sends heat flaming to her cheeks. A very familiar stainless steel object rests there, polished and gleaming in the soft light. Its sleek metallic curves are more suited to a modernist sculpture than a sex toy.

“Where did you find this?” Bedelia pulls her robe tight about her thin frame as if she could make it a second silky skin.

“I bought it for you. To replace the one you left behind in Baltimore.” His tone is deliberately neutral, but Bedelia knows it for the provocation it is.

“You went through my private things? That’s very rude, Hannibal.”

“You abandoned them,” he says defensively.

 _You abandoned me_ is the sentiment that goes unsaid yet rings from the rafters.

Bedelia turns away, overcome with an embarrassment she cannot hide. “I know what this must look like.” The cold woman with her cold toy, unable to receive pleasure from anything warm and beating and human. He would not be the first to think her frigid. Tears spring to her eyes, and she dabs at them with the hem of her silk sleeve.

“How does it look?” he asks, and for a moment Bedelia glimpses the Hannibal his patients must see. No wonder so many trusted him—his person suit is gentle, tweedy, and calm. When she does not answer, he picks up the toy in his hands and begins to caress its curves. “I think a toy like this takes on the heat of the one who uses it. I imagine the sensation is very erotic.”

She watches mesmerized as he rolls the stainless steel wand beneath his hands, marking it with his own body heat, from its bulbous head to its narrow handle. Her own observant eyes pick out the line of his cock half-hard against his trousers. The thought of him aroused by the thought of her…it makes her flush with fever.

He squirts a small amount of lubricant in his hands and rubs it over the wand’s thick head before handing it to her. It is surprisingly hot. “I want you to use this. Bring yourself to climax as if you were alone.”

She shakes her head, an instinctual reflex. “I told you, I can’t. It won’t work. It has never worked before.”

“There is a first time for everything.” He is infuriatingly optimistic.

She sinks to the bed. “I can’t…while you watch me. I just can’t.”

He thinks for a minute, head cocked in thought, before lying down beside her. He unzips his trousers and begins to stroke himself through his silk boxer shorts. “Then perhaps you should watch me.”

Bedelia gasps as he takes himself in hand, unashamed in his obvious desire for her and his search for his own pleasure. Fully erect he is large, much larger and thicker than the toy in her hand, larger than any man she had ever known. He peels down his boxer shorts to let his cock spring free; with one hand he teases the uncut tip, while the other tickles his balls, causing him to shudder.

“I want you,” he tells her, between gasps. He strokes himself, smooth and teasing, clearly relishing the long drawn out pleasure, pumping slow at first, then fast. “Do you know how many times I have done this, aching for you? Countless.”

“I have ached for you, too.” She feels the ache right now, an emptiness to be filled. Tentatively, she lays next to him and pushes the toy against her entrance. It slips inside easily, coming to rest exactly against her g-spot as designed. A few tugs and strokes and soon she is gasping, too. The toy turns molten within her, sliding against her walls, smooth and liquid. She watches him, matches her strokes to his, pulling and thrusting, imagining he is inside of her, marble soft head of his cock teasing her, pushing her closer and closer to the edge with every stroke. They moan and sigh in counterpoint and she is so focused, so aroused by the sight of him touching himself to the point of climax, her own orgasm takes her by surprise, overwhelms her and sends her crashing soon after him. His hand meets hers at the toy’s handle and she is treated to the sensation of him fucking her, very briefly.

He turns to her and kisses her affectionately on the forehead. “I think you underestimate yourself.”

*

Their lives have taken on the quality of a ritual—fine food for her to taste, fine clothes of silk and satin and wool to wrap around her body, fine art and music for her eyes and ears to feast upon. They were there, they were always there, but her enjoyment of them is more intense, her senses heightened under Hannibal’s tutelage. She is more aware of the warmth of sunlight on her skin and the feel of the weathered cobblestones beneath her feet on her daily walk. The aroma of almond flaked cornetto and espresso call to her, so she stops at the _pasticerria_ to treat herself. Bedelia wonders if this is what it means to live as Hannibal lives, never a sensual whim denied.

It is like her own veil has been removed, the protective film she has kept between herself and the rest of the world. She saw but did not touch, she touched but did not feel. It is enthralling to shed it at last, but oh so frightening.

That evening, he sits beside her in their bed, both of them in nothing but their night clothes. He reaches forward and cups his hand about her jaw, drawing her to him and pressing his lips against hers, gentle pressure until she opens her mouth and tastes him. He opens wide and invites her to reciprocate; a spark lights in her belly at the moment her tongue touches his. It is their first proper kiss, the first time they have kissed for themselves and not for an audience as Roman and Lydia Fell. It is a deep kiss, a good kiss. It seems to go on forever, until she moans.

He smiles back at her, eyes sparkling devilishly, and kisses her again. And again. Each kiss is more intense than the last, but he makes no move to touch her further. Her hands tangle in his short hair as his lips travel up her jaw to the sensitive skin of her ear, tongue flicking against her earlobe before nipping at it briefly with his teeth. The sensation is unexpected and overwhelming and she gasps, so he does it again, tonguing that sensitive spot until she is breathless and limp in his arms.

He pulls back at her and smiles at her with a shit-eating grin that would be infuriating if she wasn’t so aroused. “So many people neglect the less obvious erogenous zones.”

“Yes,” she says, almost hypnotically. She’s so high on a cloud of endorphins, her rational brain has begun to short-circuit.

His thumb brushes over her collar bone, drawing aside the strap of her gown, baring just a hint of skin. “Your other lovers were impatient, too focused on their own pleasure. But I am not them. And I intend to savor you.”

It is both a promise and a threat and her only response is to tremble. Their eyes meet and she is sure he sees the naked hunger in hers, the silent pleading for him to continue. His eyes travel to her breasts where she is highly conscious of her erect nipples straining against the fabric of her gown. He cups her breast in his hand, lightly running his thumb over her nipple. She cries out; he has touched her many times, but this is the first time he has done so in such an overtly sexual way. His thumb circles and teases and is soon joined by his other hand doing the same on her left breast. She moans.

“Very sensitive,” he says approvingly—why does his approval make her wet? “Some women, you know, can climax from nipple stimulation alone.”

“I am not one of them,” she insists, hoarse with arousal.

His only response is to tug down her gown and take her erect nipple between his teeth. “Oh!” she cries out and her little involuntary sounds of pleasure only cause him to suck harder. Electric tendrils shoot down her spine to wrap around her core, long dormant circuits of desire light up like a string of Christmas lights. He kisses his way to her other breast, teasing the soft skin there and circling with his tongue before claiming it with his mouth.

He keeps sucking. He doesn’t stop. The pleasure is so intense, too intense…she can’t remember the last time any lover had lavished such attention on her. Suddenly, she is very, very self-conscious of this fact. “You don’t need to…perhaps you should stop.”

He pauses and lets go of her nipple with an obscene pop. “No,” he tells her simply.

She’s not sure how much longer he continues—it is an exquisite brand of torture. If his intention is to arouse her past the point of sense, he has succeeded. He is determined to wring every last molecule of pleasure he can from her body and finally when he has brought her to the point where she is bucking the empty air in search of release, he slips a finger inside her sodden core and begins to fuck her. Slowly.

His finger is easily twice the size of one of hers and her muscles tense around him, even though she is dripping wet. “Try to relax,” he says, tone almost clinical. “Tell me when you are ready for more.”

Her hand seeks the thick bulge in his own pajama pants but he shakes his head with a groan. “I am concerned only with your pleasure, tonight, Bedelia. Your pleasure gives me pleasure. Do not try to shift the focus off yourself.”

She had done that many times with others in the past—men in her experience were quite easy to misdirect. But not Hannibal. She tries to remember what he has taught her, to let go and focus on the sensation, the heat of his skin and the feel of him inside of her. Suddenly, one finger is not enough. “More,” she gasps.

He is eager to obey, a second finger stretches her, fills her. He curls both fingers together and pushes against that sensitive place inside, causing her to arch into his touch. He brushes that spot, finding a rhythm that she likes, bringing the palm of his hand to press against her clitoris and suddenly she is fucking herself wantonly against his hand, pinching her own nipple. It’s so good…she could almost…it’s there, so close, but just out of reach…forever out of reach.

And then she is all too aware that she hasn’t climaxed yet, and probably won’t, and what a disappointment she is. That elusive moment has passed—closer than she has come in years—and it is gone. “Stop,” she tells him, gripping his wrist. “Stop, please. I can’t. I can’t.”

Reluctantly, he removes his hand. “You were doing so well. I do not mind. I do not think we should stop.”

She’s pulls her robe closed. “I mind, Hannibal. This was all a mistake. I have told you, it won’t work. The more effort you put in, the more pressure I feel, the more I can’t…” Her voice trails off, unable to finish the thought. “I think it’s best you sleep in your room tonight."

“I’m not leaving,” he tells her firmly.

“Then I will.”

His hunter’s eyes track her, but he does not chase her down. She makes her way to his room at the opposite end of the hall and closes the door firmly behind her. But even here she cannot escape him—the deep mahogany wood and thick burgundy curtains remind her too much of Hannibal. She pulls back the covers and climbs into his bed, but it all smells of him, the spice of his cologne, his _scent_. His presence is even more oppressive here than beside her in her own bed.

It is too much, he is too much. She rages against the pillow, crying silently to herself. She had been a fool to let him try. Perhaps she is the true monster among them, a woman-shaped robot who malfunctions. An otherwise perfect diamond solitaire with a glaring flaw at her heart.

Even after she has cried herself out, she cannot sleep. Two weeks ago, she could not have imagined sleeping with him and now her bed feels empty without him. As if on cue, Hannibal appears, shadowing the doorway. He sets a glass of water on her nightstand and perches on the edge of the bed.

She drinks the water greedily; her tears have exhausted her. She cannot remember the last time she had sobbed so openly, not since medical school certainly. Perhaps she is experiencing early menopause. “Thank you,” she says.

He watches her carefully, then says, “Bedelia, I have to ask—did someone—”

She cuts him off. “Nothing happened to me, Hannibal; I happened.” She wonders if he will find her non-explanation as frustrating as his.

He flexes out his hands, previously clenched into fists. “I am relieved.” A brief therapeutic pause. “Do you wish to talk about it?”

“Not really.” She lies down again, turning her face away from him.

“And once again the old adage about doctors making the worst patients is proven true.” He lies beside her on his back, unwilling to leave her be. “I shall talk about it, then. Your problem. I think you feel broken. And those you have taken to your bed have not dispelled you of this notion—such men should be grateful that there is a large ocean between us at present.” The hunger in his voice is obvious and it calls to a kindred part of her. “And because you are a woman with, shall we say, perfectionistic tendencies, and a hatred of weakness, you abhor this about yourself. You hate failing, so you have stopped trying. You let your patients fulfill your need for emotional intimacy, an intimacy you do not reciprocate.”

Every single word he says about her is true. Somewhere halfway through his diagnosis she started crying again, tears slipping easily over her cheeks. “Until you. But as you like to remind me, you are not an ordinary man—you are entirely Other.”

He tugs at her shoulder. His eyes are as sad as her own. “Perhaps I am an ordinary man—one who understands your loneliness, even if it is not the same as mine. And perhaps you are no ordinary woman.”

She sits up, drawing her posture as erect as possible in an attempt to claim some kind of tear-streaked dignity. ““You treat me like a puzzle box—you will press and twist and turn until I yield my prize at last. What happens to me when you finally succeed—when the game is won? Shall you tire of me, shall we return to that other game of which you are so fond, the reckless one that will lead us both to destruction?”

Hannibal goes very still, the way he does when he is feeling especially hurt. He covers her small hand with his. “I was wrong to term this a game. A game implies winners and losers and that does not apply here. Yes, we are playing together, Bedelia, but it is a duet, not a game.”

The sincerity of his answer takes her by surprise—such moments of unvarnished candor from him are rarer than saffron and she has no defense for them. Suddenly she is overcome by both physical and emotional exhaustion. She throws her arms about his neck and says in a broken plea, “Take me back to our bed.”

Hannibal scoops her up in his arms as if she weighed no more than a doll. He does not need to be asked twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bedelia's toy is the N-joy pure wand. Worth the splurge, my friends. Also so perfectly Bedelia. 
> 
> Thank you for all the enthusiasm--feedback is love! Expect the grand finale, with all its orgasmic fireworks, soon. :)


	4. Chapter 4

The next evening after her bath, Hannibal offers her a choice. “When one falls off a horse, one is encouraged to get back up on it. I think it best we continue, but it is your decision.”

She has spent far too many years frightened of this particular horse. “We can continue.”

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

“I trust you enough, I suppose.”

She can tell he is dissatisfied with her answer, but does not press the point. He hands her a flat white box. “Open it,” he says.

Bedelia does not know what to expect—the box is too light to contain any sort of serious _implement_. With trembling fingers, she tosses aside the cover to reveal a black satin blindfold, long ribbons trailing at the ends. “I do not trust you _this_ much, Hannibal.”

He plucks the blindfold from its box and turns it in his hands. “You think this is for my benefit.”

“Isn’t it?”

He circles her to stand behind her, close enough to nuzzle her hair and earlobes. “I have made some observations in the past few days—in the past few years. You do not wish to be seen. And while, yes, I would prefer help you shed these particular inhibitions, to push you at the present moment would prove counterproductive. So, in the meantime, I have found a compromise.” He dangles the blindfold in front of her before dropping it in her palm.

“What you say is not without insight.” Some unknown part of her brain has lit up, excited at the possibility…the freedom…to enjoy herself without monitoring her every reaction, to not have to watch Hannibal watching her. It is no small sacrifice on Hannibal’s part—she knows how much he longs to _see_ her. “Still,” she protests, “I am reluctant to engage in such bedroom games.”

“Not a game, Bedelia.” He kisses her temple and cuddles her close. “A duet.”

“A duet,” she echoes. He is so close, so tender—she feels herself melting, all but dripping into his embrace. She places the blindfold in his outstretched hand. “I am persuaded to try this your way.”

He gestures for her to sit on the bed, kneeling behind her. Before she can change her mind, he has blinded her, turning her world velvety dark. He is very careful not to tangle her hair in the ribbons as he ties the knot behind her head. Hannibal ties it firmly—neither too loose nor too tight.

“When one loses one sense, the others work harder to compensate,” he tells her, drawing her silk robe off her shoulders, exposing her breasts. “You may find your sense of smell, hearing, and touch are heightened.” He uncorks something; it fills the room with the most delicious smell.

“Jasmine?” she guesses.

“Yes. And vanilla. Both known for their aphrodisiac qualities.” She can hear him rubbing his palms together. “Lie down,” he instructs.

Bedelia reclines, tentatively seeking out the pillow, harder than it seems without her sight. She feels his warm hands spreading oil over her shoulders, her biceps and arms, kneading and massaging away a tension she did not even realize she had been carrying. She’d had professional massages before, but never one like this, never one so sensual. Her world is nothing but delicious, decadent jasmine and his hands on her body. Her breasts feel full; they ache to be touched, and it seems an age before he caresses the sensitive underside of one of them. He massages and strokes, touching her everywhere except where she most wants to be touched until she all but thrusts her hardened nipples into his oiled palms.

He runs a slick thumb over both of them and she sighs in pleasure and relief. Hannibal chuckles. “Patience,” he says. He pulls and twists them a little, building in intensity before his hands wander on, leaving her frustrated, wanting more. Which she supposes is entirely the point, again.

His hands travel over her ribcage, her taut belly, all the way down to her sex, pausing to comb his fingers through her damp curls before stopping altogether. “Lift your hips,” he says, placing a pillow beneath her buttocks. A knot of anticipation tightens in her core—she has fantasized about this with him many times, though she suspects her fantasies of this act will be much more fulfilling than the actual deed if past experience is any indication. To her surprise she hears a whirring, mechanical sound, and feels the sensation of something hard and metallic buzzing against her thigh. A vibrator, she supposes—but then her senses tell her something is amiss as the object makes pass after pass. Her vulva feels cool and exposed to the air—it’s _not_ a vibrator.

Bedelia sits up and snatches the blindfold from her eyes, furious. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?”

“Removing your pubic hair,” he says guilelessly.

She looks down to find her mons completely shaven—he has not even left her a landing strip. “I will never understand,” she says, seething, “the expectation men seem to have that a grown woman should resemble a pre-pubescent girl below the waist.”

“I have no such expectation—I merely thought it might heighten your sensitivity.” He runs a finger against the newly bare skin to illustrate his point; she shivers. “It can be a very sensual experience. One you were beginning to enjoy.”

Bedelia feels herself flush with heat. It had felt pleasurable—there was no denying she was terribly aroused. She replaces her blindfold and lies back down. “You may as well finish what you’ve started.”

“Good,” he says, and she is thankful she cannot see the self-satisfied expression on his face as he says it. “Try to focus on the sensation and set aside your ethical reservations for the moment.” Hannibal’s philosophy in a nutshell.

The trimmer flicks back on and she can feel it buzzing against her mons again. It travels downward, pressing against her already aroused labia. She moans at the sensation; it really does feel like a vibrator. The thought of what he is doing, the taboo nature of it, has tripped some undiscovered button in her hindbrain. It is so intimate to have him groom her. Nothing at all like the bikini waxes she’d had before—quick, perfunctory, and painful. He moves the trimmer against her lips, careful not to nick her, palm protecting the sensitive, swollen bud of her clitoris. The sensation is maddening—close but not enough. Even after she is completely bare, he continues to shave her—a gesture that has nothing to do with being thorough and everything to do with the intention of arousing her beyond measure.

Finally, he flicks it off and the buzzing ceases. She nearly whimpers from the loss of it. Soon she feels something cool and creamy being spread all over her. The bristles of the shaving brush tickle—he pauses a bit to tease the outside of her entrance with it, chuckling when she bucks against him.

“It is important that you hold still for this next bit,” he cautions.

Bedelia’s heart thuds in her chest; her breath catches. Cold metal scrapes against her mound. “Is that—”

“A straight razor, yes. I’ll remind you again that I trained as a surgeon.”

Bedelia hears the blood pound in her ears. It is a small consolation that the Ripper preferred to look his victims in the eye when he cut them open, all the better to see them. That newly discovered kinky button in her brain is being mashed on hard—pleasure and danger blurred for her so long ago with him.

He is very, very careful. So careful, so slow, it leaves danger altogether and blossoms into a kind of sensual torture. It seems an age before the cool blade brushes up against her swollen lips. His fingers touch her deftly, stretching her skin taut, dragging the blade against it—that nimble, expert surgeon’s touch. Occasionally a finger slips inside, just to tease, and slips back out again all too soon. She feels herself flood with moisture; she’s never been more aroused. Bedelia thinks if he were to touch her right now, she would climax instantly. She needs it to end; she never wants it to end.

It ends with him pouring warm water over her now completely bald sex and massaging some kind of oil into her bare skin. “To help prevent razor burn—my own special blend of aloe and vitamin E.” His fingers caress her swollen lips, painfully aroused. “I wish you could see how beautiful you are right now—so juicy and aching and ripe.” He guides her hand to her naked vulva. “Feel,” he urges.

She’s impossibly soft and smooth, like warm silk—Hannibal has been very thorough, of course. It makes her feel sensual and naughty. A spasm travels through her. “Ohhh,” she moans.

She feels his hot breath inches away from her sex. “Do you want me to taste you?”

If he doesn’t she thinks she might actually die of sexual frustration. “Yes,” she whimpers.

His tongue licks long stripes against her lips, tracing the path where the sharp blade of the razor had just been. He licks her so thoroughly; every inch of her is caressed by his soft mouth, except the bud where she needs it the most. He nibbles soft kisses all over her; her toes and fingers curl against the fine gauge sheets. Finally, when she can take no more, he slips his tongue deep inside her entrance and closes his lips around her clitoris. He sucks once, twice, three times and that is all it takes. It is like a dam breaking inside of her and just as violent as powerful spasms wrack her entire body. She screams aloud and tears at his hair, driving him deeper and deeper into her, exactly on the serrated edge between pleasure and pain.

He does not stop, merely sucks harder against her clit, filling her to the brim with two fingers and first and then three. They curl against her g-spot, teasing it over and over. If at first he was maddeningly gentle, now he fucks her hard, determined to push her toward a second orgasm. Her highly aroused cunt responds enthusiastically and she comes again, harder and quicker than before.

He slows as she comes down from the high. She sits up and peels back the blindfold so she can see him. Her juices are smeared across his face like royal icing and his pupils are warm and dark with his own arousal. “Hannibal,” she pleads.

He hears her unspoken wish and crawls up to kiss her. “So sweet,” he tells her huskily.

“Mmmhmm,” she says, not a thought in her mind but the need to be even closer to him. “I…I need you inside of me. I can’t wait any longer.”

A spark of danger comes into his eyes, one that lights a fire in her own belly. “Put the blindfold back on.”

As soon as she does, she feels him pull both her legs flush against him. He enters her easily with one fluid thrust. Her walls clench around him. He rocks gently against her and she can feel his skin brush hers, silk against satin, as soft and as bare as her own. Suddenly, though it does not seem possible, she is even more aroused. “You wanted to heighten your sensitivity, too.”

He laughs. “It’s more aesthetically pleasing this way for both of us.”

Hannibal guides her legs high in the air, her feet just grazing his shoulders. “Don’t think about how it looks,” he says, pausing to kiss her big toe. “Focus only on the pleasure, on the deep penetration.”

And though it’s true this position must look like something out of a pornographic film, she responds enthusiastically to every thrust, enjoying the feeling of being filled so completely. His thrusts are so precise, his cock seems to have been sculpted to fit her g-spot perfectly. He’s like hot marble inside of her. She’d forgotten how good this could feel, how warm it made her.

“I never want you to stop,” she says. It is the most honest, nakedly true thing she has ever said to him.

His response is to thrust harder and cover her clitoris with the heel of his hand. She is bucking and thrusting against him in turn and brings her own hand down to entwine with his, urging him to press harder and harder until she is spiraling toward a third impossible orgasm. The trembling of her walls sparks his own climax—he pulls her hips firmly toward him and fills her again with one aching final thrust. For a moment, time itself slows down, suspends, reverses. It’s a feeling of such unity and intimacy—it makes her cry.

And suddenly he’s there, pulling back the blindfold and kissing her tears away. For a moment she longs for the darkness, to hide her vulnerable, naked soul there. But his own eyes are filled with a kind of…awe…at the sight of her and what they have shared. Hannibal nuzzles her close and says, “What beautiful music we make together when you let me see you.”


	5. Epilogue

Bedelia awakes the next morning to a bedroom glowing with light, aching deliciously in some unfamiliar places. With a frown, she notices the space beside her is empty. She touches her hand to the pillowcase—his side is hours cold.

After brushing her teeth and smoothing her errant sex hair, she pads to the kitchen where Hannibal bustles about making breakfast. He sets her morning cappuccino before her along with a spinach and egg white omelet. “I am sorry. I would have liked to have made you breakfast in bed, but there was no time.”

Puzzled, Bedelia glances at the clock; it’s nearly ten. They’ve both overslept. “Shouldn’t you be at the Capponi?”

“I am not going to the Capponi today. Or any other day,” he tells her very seriously.

Her sleepy eyes wander to the hallway. Two bags stand packed, waiting in attention at the door like twin soldiers. Something sours in her stomach. “You packed lightly.”

He takes her hand in his, smiling when the diamond of her wedding ring catches the morning light. “I packed for us.” He turns somber and says, “We are no longer safe in Florence. As you told me, I have been reckless here.”

She swallows. “And what of your plans? And of Will Graham?” Her voice shakes; she will not let herself be hurt and deceived.

He kneels before her and for a moment it seems like he is proposing marriage, though they “married” long ago. “I enjoy our duet too much. We have only begun to play together. I do not wish it to end.”

“I do not wish it to end either,” she confesses.

He beams and rises to his feet, tugging her up to he can embrace her fully. “And if Will Graham should pursue us…perhaps our duet will one day become a trio.”

“Still intent on that kind of party, aren’t you?” After last night, the idea is no longer so inconceivable.

“Or perhaps he will give up and return home to find a duet partner of his own.” He kisses her open palm. “One as suited to him as you are to me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Anywhere,” he says, whispering against her lips. “Anywhere you desire.”

An image of the two of them sprawled on a black sand beach, limbs intertwined as aqua blue surf crashes over them pops into her head. “Some place warm, I think…but for now,” she tugs him closer, melding her body to his, “for now, the only place I want you to take me is back to bed.”

“We can take a later train.” His smile spreads slowly. “A much later train.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all of the enthusiasm and wonderful comments. It's great to hear that this story has spoken to so many people's experiences. It makes it worthwhile for me as a writer to know I've written something people connect with. 
> 
> I've always believed that if Bedelia had just opened up a bit, had let Hannibal see her--and if had been a bit less self-centered in Florence--he would have fallen for her completely. So it was fun to explore a scenario where they were just a teeny tiny bit more open with each other. 
> 
> The title is taken from a cultural history of the Victorian era of the same name by a scholar named Peter Gay. "The Education of the Senses" was a euphemism for how a Victorian, usually a man, acquired sexual knowledge.


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